WILLIAM BROWNE

Fear not your ships, Nor any to oppose you save our lips;

But come on shore, Where no joy dies till Love hath gotten more.

For swelling waves our panting breasts,

Where never storms arise, Exchange, and be awhile our guests:

For stars gaze on our eyes. The compass Love shall hourly sing, And as he goes about the ring,

We will not miss To tell each point he nameth with a kiss.

Then come on shore, Where no joy dies till Love hath gotten more.

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��250 The Rose

ROSE, as fair as ever saw the North, Grew in a little garden all alone; A sweeter flower did Nature ne'er put forth, Nor fairer garden yet was never known: The maidens danced about it morn and noon, And learned bards of it their ditties made; The nimble fairies by the pale-faced moon Water'd the root and kiss'd her pretty shade. But well-a-dayl the gardener careless grew; The maids and fairies both were kept away, And in a drought the caterpillars threw Themselves upon the bud and every spray.

God shield the stock' If heaven send no supplies, The fairest blossom of the garden dies.

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